The trouble with taking a month or more off work around Christmas is the return to the grind. The people you work with, or for - even the best of them - have nearly all turned into the sort of scary monsters that Hollywood writers dream of dreaming of.
I work in a union setting where seniority plays a major role in what crappy job you get to do. That being so, lots of your co-workers (and maybe your foreman) have dreamed of you succumbing to alcohol poisoning or maybe being mistaken for a street gang member targeted by violent rivals while you have been off fucking the dog.
Pupinder, who was doing my job while I was away, was the first disappointed motherfucker to ask how my time off went. "I thought you would drink yourself to death for sure this year Beer. You are the only white man I know who can drink scotch and beer for a month and come back to work looking like he has spent the whole time at a retreat in the mountains."
Pupinder is ok. He is one of the few guys at work to go over to the management side and come back to the union. When he rejoined his union brothers I asked him what it was like being in management.
"Everything you have heard about management culture is true Beer," he told me. "At my first management party everybody moved off into different parts of the boss' mansion until only me and the boss were drinking his scotch by the fireplace. Next thing I knew I was sucking his dick like my life depended on it. I figured to succeed in the white man's world you have to live by the white man's ways.
"Next party it was the same thing except this time the boss fucked me in the ass too. He was gentle though so I went along with it.
"Last weekend a couple of his vice-presidents thought they would like to test my management skills also. I told them they could go fuck themselves. That is why I am back here on the shop floor."
I told Pupinder, "I knew you were a man of integrity Poopy."
He said, "Fuck you Beer."